The hunter seized the rope and passed, but as soon as the general saw him on the other side, he unfastened the lasso and threw it across.
"What are you doing?—Stop!" the hunters shouted in stupor, mingled with horror.
The general bent over the barranca, holding on to a rock with his left hand.
"Red Cedar must not discover your trail," he said; "that is why I unfastened the lasso. Good-bye, brother, and may the Almighty aid you."
An explosion was heard, echoed in the distance by the mountains, and the general's corpse rolled into the abyss, bounding from rock to rock with a dull sound. General Ibañez had blown out his brains.[1]
At this unexpected dénouement the hunters were petrified. They could not understand how, through the fear of killing himself in crossing the canyon, the general had preferred blowing out his brains. Still, the action was logical in itself; it was not death, but only the mode of death that terrified him; and as he fancied it an impossibility to follow his comrades, he had preferred sudden death. Still, in dying, the brave general had rendered them a final and immense service. Thanks to him, their trail had so entirely disappeared, that it would be impossible for Red Cedar to find it again.
The hunters, although they had succeeded in escaping from the fatal circle in which the pirate had thrust them, owing to Valentine's daring resolve, still found themselves in a most critical situation: they must get down into the plain as speedily as possible, in order to find some road, and, as always, happens in the desert under such circumstances, every sympathy must promptly yield to the necessity that held them in its iron arms; the common danger suddenly aroused in them that feeling of self-preservation which never does more than sleep.
Valentine was the first to overcome his grief and regain his self-mastery. Since he had been crossing the desert, the hunter had witnessed so many strange scenes, had been an actor in so many mournful tragedies, that, his tender feelings were considerably blunted, and the most terrible events affected him but slightly.
Still, Valentine felt a deep friendship for the general; in many circumstances he had appreciated all that was really grand and noble in his character, hence the fearful catastrophe which had, without any preparation, broken the ties between them, produced a great impression on him.
"Come, come," he said, shaking his head as if to get rid of painful thoughts, "what can't be cured must be endured. Our friend has left us for a better world,—perhaps it is for the best so. God does everything well; our grief will not restore our dear friend's life, so let us think of ourselves, my friends, for we are not lying on roses, and if we do not make haste, we may run a risk of speedily joining him. Come, let us be men."